Allessia felt her violet eyes open to his gaze. She heard voices deep within her, calming her, reassuring her, urging her to let go to the desire racing through her body. She felt his kiss once more.
For some time after Lord Hardknot’s departure Allessia lay still upon the bed. She could not sleep, nor could she move her mind to any purpose other than reflection. In time the first rays of sunlight started to sweep the darkness of night away. The sound of the Royal Honeybees as they welcomed the dawn grew through the open window. She stretched her legs over soft sheets, remembering the night before. Was such pleasure to be denied, she wondered? She heard distant shouts from the beekeepers as they entered a new day. She felt the souls of people she had never met passing through the air around her. She felt his hands upon her body, and her own upon his. She was special, and all that had been promised to her was now coming to pass.
Then the gift that Lord Hardknot had promised came to her as a swarm of Royal Honeybees flew through the window. They filled the space above her, spiraling around and around in joy. They flew down to dance over her naked body, depositing their minute Gifts of Ethemany before taking to the air once more. All but one, a honeybee far larger than every other, and one that buzzed its wings in anger as it circled above her. And when at last it left her presence, it scorched through the Hivedom like a spark from a furnace, a thin trail of fire marking its wake.
And the fire took hold.
For it was written that;
‘The King shall bring the Dance of Fire to His Beloved, and those that perish shall be raised again, their Souls inviolate, and their Death undone.’
Chapter 39
The Zenjo Warriors were waiting for Lord Hardknot’s carriage by the gates to the Hivedom, their captive bound before them. Even in the half-light of dawn, Hardknot could observe the mass of blood that had freshly flowed down the man’s rustic cloth tunic. A dirty blood-soaked bandage had been tied about their face to cover one eye. Beneath it a mouth gasped for air as it grimaced with pain.
‘Shot in eye,’ said the Zenjo chieftain. ‘We think first a shuffler,’ and with that he pulled a curved blade from a sheath and swished it through the air where it danced in the green light, ‘but they not carry like this.’
Hardknot stared at the blade and then at the captive once more. Clearly the man was no ordinary shuffler, but he did not need the evidence of the weapon to tell him that.
‘Mine now,’ said the chieftain, as he returned the blade to its sheath in a single motion; a claim Hardknot was happy to ignore.
‘Who are you?’ Hardknot asked of the captive. ‘And if you value your life, speak quickly and true.’
‘I am Lord Wellbourne…once of Wellbourne Manor,’ the man gasped.
Hardknot’s encyclopedic brain flashed as he remembered the high profile fall from grace of one of the City’s most prominent families. Only the son had survived, a youth of promise, he recalled, but one who had been banished from the City. Clearly the qualities that had distinguished his family for many generations, had also come to elevate their one remaining survivor outside the City walls.
‘And what are you called amongst the Shufflers? For no Lords have title there.’
The man’s head rocked as a shaft of pain rippled through his fearful wound once more.
‘I am known as…Ramuth-Pro.’
‘The Prince of Dealmakers!’ exclaimed Hardknot. ‘I have heard of your rise to the top of that ill-begotten society, but had not realised it was you.’
And truly Hardknot was impressed at the innate talent and determination that such a young man had taken with him into exile many years ago. There is something of value here, he thought. But first, what dangers were also present in one that had carried such a vicious blade.
‘And why were you entering the City?’ he asked.
Ramuth-Pro stared back with his one remaining eye, and for a moment Hardknot saw a depth of anger that he rarely encountered. It was not selfish nor wanton, but homed in upon a cause. The best kind of anger, but the most difficult to contain.
‘I am a shuffler. At night…I go where I have the right to go.’
‘Armed?’ asked Hardknot, but Ramuth-Pro did not answer, his head rocking to and fro and his pallor growing greyer by the minute.
Hardknot snapped his fingers and several hivecarls rushed to his side.
‘Take this man and have the drollkeepers clean his wound with clover water,’ he said. ‘Ensure they use only the best Royal Honey as a dressing. His eye is surely lost, but they must not lose the rest of him. Keep him under guard at all times until my return.’
The hivecarls bowed and then walked away, Ramuth-Pro being led by a rope still fixed around his neck.
‘And the rest?’ asked Hardknot, turning to the Zenjo chieftain once more.
‘Maybe six,’ he grunted. ‘Holy Guards. Some run, some dead. But him your threat. Maybe?’
‘Go back to the streets and be sure,’ said Hardknot. ‘You have more gold already. If you find more danger, more gold too.’
‘Same?’ quizzed the chieftain, and Hardknot nodded.
The small group turned as one and trotted away, the Hivecarls as always watching them intently, their hands readied on the hilts of their axes.
Hardknot’s carriage continued its journey to the Cathedral, his mind returning again and again to his first night with Allessia. He had long imagined such a perfect union, but the sweet reality of their lovemaking had overwhelmed him completely. They were made for each other; of this he was certain.
He stared at the City streets now coming to life under the Green Sun. The atmosphere of tension had calmed of late and things were slowly returning to normal, as he knew they always would. Not even reports of several gruesome murders, recently discovered in Pumpkin Park, could keep the Proletaires away from their day-to-day business for too long. But the description of the horrific wounds visited on several downcasts had swept through the City like a virus. ‘Disemboweled,’ a senior guard had told Hardknot, ‘and with a weapon as sharp as a razor.’ Hardknot had no doubt which hands were to blame, for whilst most of this season’s Jazpahs were gone, there were always some that defied the cold for the pleasure of a short-lived rogue existence. Just as with the ditch wasps that had formed a key component of their heritage, such solitary creatures were both aimless and vicious; a terrible combination. But Hardknot knew they would all soon be dead, and when the three suns came closer to warm the air once more, Lasivia would be delivered of her blessed fruit; a new swarm, and far greater in number than ever before.
His thoughts turned to his plans for the City. Instructions had been given for the Hivedom walls to be taken down. The construction of several large greenhouses was already underway, and when they were completed the gardeners would start filling them with thousands of earthenware pots set with cuttings and seeds. When Spring came the process of filling the City with trees, blossoms, shrubs, flowers and fruits, would begin in earnest. He looked at the drab grey buildings and tired green shrubs as they passed by his carriage window and imagined them all freshly painted in a kaleidoscope of shades and colours. Then would the Royal Honeybees be given leave to wander where they may, following the sweet scents into the parks, streets and alleyways of the City, spreading the blessing of pollination, propagating new life, and gathering nectar for the Hivedom.
Lord Marshall Forgewell was waiting to greet him at the Cathedral steps. The entire area was filled with a cacophony of horses’ hooves, marching feet, shouted orders, bugles, drums, and more, as the King’s Army practiced the pomp that would accompany the morrows Ceremony of Prime Union.
‘Your Oneness,’ Forgewell said, bowing. He stood upright once more, now over eight feet in height from the bottom of his metal-soled riding boots to the tip of his buzzerback-feathered helmet. ‘A glorious day fast approaches.’
‘And all is prepared?’ asked Hardknot, beginning to climb the long stone steps that led up to the entrance to St. Parthanter’s Cathedral.
‘Indeed it is, Your Oneness. The King’s Army has never looked better, nor marched so proud.’
‘And the Palace Guard?’
‘As you have instructed, they will take up key positions around and inside the Cathedral. If any hand should seek to disrupt proceedings, they will be swiftly dealt with. The same instructions have been followed at the Palace. We, of course, leave the safety of the Hivedom to your Hivecarls.’
Indeed,’ said Hardknot, still walking briskly upwards with Forgewell struggling to keep abreast in a clatter of heavy footsteps.
They reached the top and Hardknot turned to enjoy the scene. He saw precision in the massed ranks marching to the beat of the King’s Own Band; he saw flags catching the wind and swirling like flames; he saw flashes of light from helmets, breastplates, sheaths and swords. But most of all he saw power, and it was all his to control.
‘Leave nothing to chance,’ he said at last, and then turned and walked into the beating heart of his glorious Reformation.
The Cathedral was also in the midst of turmoil as it raced to ready itself for the ceremony; the first ever Coronation and Royal Wedding combined. Clergymen who, as with many, had already bowed to the wind of change sweeping through the Kingdom, and now dressed in multicoloured gowns tied with sparkling golden braids, were rushing here and there as they changed the layout of pews, pulpits and altars to the new order. Hardknot gazed across at the entrance to the Sacred Hellholes. They had at last been emptied of Innocents, the Red Hoods alone now sealed in their depths to await a lingering death. The doors would never be opened again.
He watched the activity as the Grand Altar was slowly rotated to the correct orientation. St Penitent’s Tabernacle of Unification had already been carried away to the smelters; the Words inside sent up in smoke Stonemasons had obliterated all religious inscriptions from the altars marble surface, and in their place would be carved the wordless geometry of Honeyism. When all was finished, it would be the altar where Honey and Life could celebrate their mystical union for evermore.
He looked around the Cathedral but could not see his new Pontinal within the sea of activity. He called a priest of the new Honeyist order to his side. ‘Where is His Elevence?’ he asked.
‘He was here but an hour ago, Your Oneness,’ the man said with his face fixed upon the floor. ‘I believe he may have gone…’ he looked upwards, ‘…up there, your Oneness.’
Hardknot craned his head back and stared up into the huge Dome. Dust from the Reformation clogged the air and it was difficult to see the small circular balcony that hugged its surface. He walked towards the North Transept and the tight spiral staircase that led towards the sky.
From a precarious stone ledge that jutted into the air from beneath the Dome of St. Parthanter’s Cathedral, Pontinal Bartolamy looked over the City skyline in the bright yellow light of morning. The drop to the streets far below would have terrified lesser souls, but it was a place of meditation that he had often escaped to as a novicical. The power of recent revelations still dominated all his thoughts. How could he possibly have imagined the world that lay deep within him; a world now found, that would be with him for all time. He was reborn a vessel of certainty, where once there had been only faith. He had found his true purpose in life, and just as a hammer will always seek a nail, he too was now an instrument seeking action. And action would be taken, the glory of Her Reformation soon to be spread throughout the Kingdom in the name of the new Honeyist Church.
He stared across to the shadow of the Grand Hive, clearing gradually from the morning mist. Far below its summit he knew that work would soon begin on dismantling the Hivedom walls. He imagined the City filled to bursting with Her bounteous gifts. Truly he was blessed to be a part of such a wondrous time of change. And yet, despite every effort to dismiss it, something troubling the back of his mind would still not be denied.
The call of a jawbeak bought him back to the moment and he slid back along the ledge and inside the Dome to the balcony. He stared down through the dusty air to the shadows of the clergy far below, ignorant of their new master above then as they busied to ready the Choir. He watched the activity for a moment, listening to the echoes of anxious voices and inhaling the sweet scent of beeswax rising up from a large number of freshly lit candles. Once again he tried to rid his thoughts of any portion of doubt, but just as before, he knew at once that it was a fruitless task. He punched the wall in frustration at the bliss of unrestrained joy denied him.
It was just as he was about to head towards the spiral staircase that he sensed a powerful presence enter the space behind him. He turned and saw a solitary tall figure walk out of the doorway and around the balcony.
‘Your Oneness,’ said Bartolamy, bowing as the tall figure came to him.
Lord Hardknot did not reply, his dark grey eyes searching into Bartolamy’s own.
For a moment Bartolamy felt as if his thoughts were being analysed. He tried to snap shut the doubt, to leave it behind in a recess of his mind, but too late.
‘Why do you harbour contrary thoughts?’ asked Hardknot.
Bartolamy’s mind raced; a sensation of fear poured into the pit of his stomach. But he already knew that truth was the only option when confronted by the searing intellect and formidable intuition of the Keeper of the Royal Honeybees.
‘I seek…only the truth,’ he answered.
‘And is not Reformation in the name of the Honeyist Church, the most beautiful truth of all?’
‘It is that, and more, Your Oneness. One by one I have recognised, and now celebrate, the many gifts She has prepared for us all. As your Pontifect, the Church shall have my life and my soul. I pledge them to you now, to the eternal glory of Her name.’
‘But, still there is more,’ added Hardknot, probing once more into the back of Bartolamy’s consciousness.
And Bartolamy relaxed his grip and allowed all his thoughts to be known.
A dark cloud covered the Green and Red Suns as Hardknot’s face stiffened with anger. Bartolamy met his icy stare, certain that this moment of confrontation could never have been avoided. Best now, he thought, rather than later.
‘He is a fount of evil,’ snapped Hardknot, his eyes burning with inner fire, ‘and must never be allowed to corrupt Her Blessed Kingdom. Can you doubt the purity of this purpose?’
‘But…will he too be offered redemption? A chance of forgiveness?’
‘Sin can be forgiven, and guilt can be removed. As Pontifect, these gifts will be in your hands, Bartolamy, and you may dispense them as you will. But denial of Her love is the very apotheosis of sin, and lies so deep within the corrupted receptacle of His Mostfull’s soul, as to prevent any such correction.’
‘For all time?’ asked Bartolamy, the doubts swirling within him bubbling to the surface to mix with the fear.
‘This time, and this place,’ answered Hardknot, ‘are only illusions. The everlasting sits within but a single moment of this existence. And for Cardinal Oblong, that single moment, is come.’
Bartolamy looked back at his master, lost for words, but before he could find any to speak, he saw Hardknot’s eyes stare over him and into the distance, a look of horror fast becoming plain upon his face.
Bartolamy turned, and in an instant saw a trail of thick black smoke beginning to rise towards the sky on the horizon. Beneath it, bright crimson flames could just be seen dancing in and out of clarity.
The Hivedom was on fire!
He turned to Hardknot once more, but only in time to see a tall shadow disappear in a flash into the dark spiral stairway.
Chapter 40
Mr Punsworth Pooter froze with fear as he watched the ghastly figure move down Dutiful Crescent. The Green Sun had finally deserted the top of the City walls, and in the vivid purple light he studied the creature’s terrifying countenance. It moved over the cobblestones with catlike elegance, its head rocking to and fro and one arm swishing backwards and forwards through the air, an occasional glint catching his eyes as light was
reflected off a blade. It emitted a low buzzing noise that, even through the glass of the window, seemed to pierce the hearing far more deeply than any ordinary sound could do. Pooter edged slowly back from the net curtain lest he should be seen, hardly daring to breathe, but with his natural Proletaire curiosity preventing him from moving away altogether.
‘Jazpah,’ he whispered, recognising the movement and shape that he had first seen in the corridor of the Seventy-Third Wing and to which Rootsby had given a name. And one that was clearly filled with life! He gulped as the creature snapped his head in his direction, as if sensing his presence.
Cabble entered the room, his face ashen, but with a look of some determination. ‘I have bolted the front and back doors, sir,’ he whispered. He joined Pooter by the window to stare at the figure that seemed to disappear into every shadow as it now continued on its way.
Suddenly a small group of King’s Guards trotted into Dutiful Crescent where, more by accident than intent, they charged at the dreadful creature. Despite their bravery, the guards could land no blows on the figure that danced before them. As he watched the fighting, Pooter found himself reminded of a wasp attacking a sweet, where despite well-timed swipes and thrusts, the insect always seemed able to avoid injury and make their way back to the treat. A similar determination ran through the jazpah, for no matter how many blows were aimed at them from fearful looking broadswords, they continued to press home their attack, dodging their assailants with apparent ease to unleash a frenzy of stabs upon them. In less than a minute it was all over, with three guards slain and the remainder fleeing for their lives; all save one, a young man who in a bizarre act of curiosity, or shock, dropped his sword, dismounted, and simply stood and stared. Despite being close at hand the jazpah made no move to attack him, but simply turned and carried on its way, its head rocking, the blade swishing from side to side, and the deep buzzing clear once more in the eerie silence. Pooter and Cabble watched spellbound until the shape disappeared from view.
The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey) Page 30
